Monday, April 21, 2014

Border Crossing - Second Version/New Name

THE TOWER AT DOG'S TONGUE

(Variant 02 - Draft - 4/17/2014)

THE EYE

“Did you see the eyes?”

Steph was a million miles away, thinking about
the man in cell number six.

Why was he here, she wondered. Why had he come, here, to Dog's Tongue? He
could have slipped right past the place, unnoticed, but he chose to come here,
to flaunt his crime. Was it his goal to be arrested? Surely he has come here
for a reason.

She felt a sense of purpose, of pride, looking
at the little piece of red string tied around her left littlest finger. It was
a reminder to add the man in cell number six to her nightly prayers. If
anyone can help you, here, it will be me, she thought.

“Huh? What?” She snapped out of her daze and
returned to the dining room table with her fellow guards. To her right was
Peter, the commander of the tower at Dog’s Tongue. To his right was Rudyard,
the captain of the night guard.

“The eyes. Did you see them?” Peter asked,
taking a sip of stale coffee, both hands on the mug.

“What eye?”

“Eyes,” he corrected her. “This morning. There
were a bunch of eyes drawn on the east side of the tower.”

“East side of the tower?” Steph repeated,
distant, concerned.

The world had changed, but the tower at Dog's
Tongue still stood. It was a relic, a stone watchtower at the edge of the
world. A sentinel, standing alone, on a vast flatness of brown, green and
white. This was the last of the towers in what was long ago called The Row,
a line of towers, stretching from sea to sea, marking the border between two
long forgotten kingdoms. Sometimes The Row had served as a welcoming doorstep,
sometimes a barring defense. There were no more kingdoms to come from or go to.

After The Collapse, the world had grown
small. The majority of civilization had consolidated to a single territory. The
wilderness to the east was what the changing climates had left behind; hostile,
desolate, uninhabitable. To the west, what remained of civilization, huddled
together, paranoid, isolated.

The tower at Dog's Tongue was a remnant of a
very different time. A reminder that there were things worth caring for.

The tower was the last outpost as one traveled
east. The next closest outpost was a small village, Dayton, a hundred miles to
the west. Once truly a watchtower, a sentinel, with purpose, the tower now
stood occupied more out of tradition than anything else. No one passed by from
the east. Only suicides passed by from the west.

“Yep. The east, facing the wilderness,” Peter
confirmed.

“Probably just the night guards having some
fun,” she shrugged, picking at the little red string, anxiously.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too. Except
Rudyard, here, was with the night guard and assures me they didn’t do
it. Right Ruddy?” He took a friendly, but authoritative tone.

“Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. Must have been
a couple hundred of them,” Rudyard added his mouth full of greasy meat. “Weird
looking things, too, like a symbol or whatcha call a hieroglyph. An eye, shaped
like an almond, with three lines above and below, drawn over and over again,
stretching ten, maybe twenty feet up.”

“It was like the whole tower was looking east,
looking for something,” Rudyard added. “Gives me the creeps.”

Just then, there was a commotion at the far end
of the dining hall. A large man was shoving a smaller man. It wasn’t apparent
what they were arguing about.

“Dammit, Griswold,” Peter grumbled.

“It’s a daily occurrence with this guy,” Steph
commented.

“He’s a bully,” Rudyard said, his mouth still
full of food.

“Excuse me. I’ve gotta take care of this before
he puts another one in the infirmary,” Peter said and stood. He pulled his
uniform tight, brushed himself off and made his way across the room.

THE PRISONER

1.

The man in cell number six had arrived nearly a
week ago. The morning guard saw him approaching, dirty and bearded and dragging
an old corpse, leathery and covered with tattoos, by a length of rope wound
round its neck.

With a casual authority, the four guards
approached the man. They were surprised to have a visitor, more surprised to
see what he was dragging. He was small, but he had a confidence about him. He
seemed fully committed to the moment.

“I’ve come prepared,” he said. “I’ve brought a
gift.”

He seemed resolved to be arrested, but he did
not go quietly. He was small; his violence was anything but.

2.

Finally, she would have a moment with the man in
cell number six.

Steph glanced proudly at the small bit of red
string still tied around her finger. She’d kept her promise; she’d prayed for
the man every night since his arrival. Surely it would make a difference.

He’s here for a reason, she thought, but why?This must be a test.I’m
being tested. He’s here to test me, to test my faith. No. No. Not him, he’s not
testing me. He is the test.

She slipped her hand into her pocket and felt
the little book that she kept there, always. In it were the words and guidance
and the strength that she needed.

Lead him toward a confession. Save him and you
save yourself.

“Did you see it?” The man asked. Steph had
barely come into view of the cell’s barred entrance. It was as if he’d been
waiting for her.

“Excuse me?” She said, startled.

“Did you see it?”

“See what?”

“The eye. Did you see the eye?”

There was an impatience in his asking. He was
digging for something beyond the obvious.

“The vandalism? Outside on the tower? No, sorry,
I didn’t. The night guards had cleaned it all off before I even heard about
it,” she said, trying to settle her nerves, trying to be friendly. This is
the test, she reminded herself.

“A shame. How many are in the night guard? Did
they all see it? Did they all see the eye?”

She had the feeling of being caught in an
illusionist’s trick. “There are four guards in the night guard. And, to my
knowledge they all saw it,” she said.

“Good. Good. That’s very good.”

“Aren’t you curious why I’m here?” Steph
asked, purposefully, positively, changing the subject. Take control, she
told herself. Push him to where he needs to go.

The man was wringing his hands, slowly, his gaze
focused, concentrating. He did not answer her.

“I’ll tell you,” she said, timidly, boldly. He
wants to tell you what he’s done. Be comfort, be a shepherd, lead him. It is
not too late. Prove yourself, Steph. She slipped her hand back into her
pocket to touch the little book. It was reassurance. “I’ve come to help you, to
guide you to the good path.”

He scoffed without even looking at her.

“Confess your sins. There is still hope for
you,” she said, uncomfortable with how awkward her words sounded.

He shot her a nasty condescending glance. She
was trying to manipulate him and he would have none of it.

“Tell me about the corpse,” she said, adopting a
mother’s soothing tone.

“Corpse?”

“The corpse you brought with you. Did you hurt
that person? Why did you do it? Was it someone you knew?”

“Ha! Corpse. Yes,” he responded. “A corpse!”

“Was it someone you loved?”

He lunged at her, grabbing two bars and pressing
his face between them. Spit flew from his mouth as he shouted,” HE IS COMING!
He is coming and when he gets here, you’ll wish you’d prepared as I have.”

3.

Later that evening, there were screams. A guard
was found murdered. Near the bloody mess, scrolled neatly in white chalk, was
the same eye as was found drawn outside.

THE SHADOW

1.

“We found Rudyard this morning,” Peter said to
Steph as they walked the hall to the dining room.

“He was the last, right? The last of the night
guard,” she asked, slipping her small hand into his.

Their postures, their steps, their words were
heavy with the emotions of unexpected tragedies. And fear. Over the last four
days, they’d found each of the four night guards murdered.

Dog's Tongue was a small outpost. There were
sixteen guards assigned to the post. Losing a quarter of their cohort was a
difficult reality.

“Yes,” Peter answered. “He was the last of the
night guard. I’ve been reassigning guards from other shifts, other duties, to
cover the gaps.”

“Have you telegraphed Home Office?”

He sighed, not wanting to share his next words.
“I haven’t told anyone; the lines must be down somewhere between us and the
Dayton outpost. I’ve been tapping out messages for days now without a single
response.”

“So, we’re alone on this?”

“Looks that way.”

“Do we have any clues? Any idea who might be
doing this or how they would have gotten inside the tower?”

“No. Not really,” he started. “The only clue we
have is that strange eye. The symbol that Rudyard talked about, outside, four
nights ago. We found it near each of the murdered guards, drawn with chalk.”

“Any idea what it might mean?” She was nervous,
anxious. She slipped her hand into her pocket and ran her fingers across the
compacted, closed pages of her little book. The texture was course. The pages
were old and unevenly cut. I’m not alone, she told herself. She didn’t
need to be so afraid. This is just part of the test.

“No idea,” Peter said, deep in thought. It was
clear, he hadn’t slept well the past few nights. “What I do know is that we are
posted at the edge of the world. We have tough men and women guarding this
place. The toughest men and women. And, four of them are dead. We’re in the
middle of nowhere. I have to assume the murderer is a guard.”

“What?” she said, startled, frightened.

“I know, Steph. I just don’t know what else to
think.”

She tugged at his hand, stopped him and turned
him to face her. She looked up at him with grave, serious eyes. “Who, Peter,
who do you suspect?”

“Honestly, the only one who comes to mind is
Griswold,” he said, clearly not wanting to admit his suspicion, even to
himself. He looked past her, to the floor, unable to make eye contact.

“Griswold,” she said his name, sounding more
convinced than Peter did. “Are you sure? Why him?”

“I don’t know. He found the first body. He’s
violent with the other guards. And, I took a hard look at his file this
morning. Seems he comes from a well-to-do family back in the capital.”

“Well-to-do? What’s the significance of that?”

“He could afford chalk.”

2.

“Have you seen it?” The man in cell number six
asked.

“I told you, it had been cleaned up before I
could,” Steph responded. She was sitting on a small wooden stool a few feet in
front of the cell, sipping coffee and nibbling on a piece of sweet bread.

“Not those,” he said, enjoying the moment. “It
moves. It multiplies. Does it not?”

Steph leaned forward, intrigued. This man had
been locked up since before the murders, since before the eye was found
outside. She thought about the little book. She could feel its slight weight
tugging at her pocket. “Who told you about that?”

“I don’t need be told anything. I told you
that I came prepared. You didn’t listen,” he was smiling, pleased with himself.
“Not that it would have mattered. You are helpless, unprepared. I have cleared
the way and I will be rewarded.”

“Tell me what you’ve done. Tell me now. RIGHT
NOW!” Steph stood, shouting. She could no longer restrain her frustration.

The man put his back against the cold stone
wall, slid, smugly, to the floor and crossed his arms. He stared at her. He did
not respond.

3.

“How many have we lost?” Steph asked.

“The four from the original night guard, one
yesterday, two the day before, another this morning. Eight total,” Peter
responded.

He was getting dressed. It was late afternoon.
The air was cold. The light was dim.

“What are you going to do?” Steph asked sitting
on the bed and sipping hot tea.

“I think this has gone on long enough,” he
started, as he strapped on his leather riot armor. It wouldn’t stop a bullet,
but it would make taking punches a little easier. “I’m going to lock up
Griswold.”

He looked back at Steph. She could see
uncertainty in his eyes. He’d be going alone. That was his way. She worried
about him. He was strong, determined, able. But, so was his enemy.

“I love you, Peter,” she said. Her words hung
honestly, nakedly in the space between them.

“I know,” he looked away, snugging a strap,
securing his armor.

“This won’t end well,” she told him.

“I know,” he said.

4.

“What are you doing?” The man in cell number six
was startled, but not actually concerned. She was acting tough, but surely, she
didn’t have it in her to hurt him.

“I’m tired of playing games,” Steph said, her
sidearm in hand. She broke open the cylinder to confirm the weapon was loaded
and snapped it back into place with a menacing elegance. “Six bullets. You’re
going to tell me what’s happening or I’m going to put these through you.”

She reached into her pocket, with one hand, to
feel the little book. It was confidence. With the other hand, she aimed her
weapon.

5.

Peter, electric with adrenaline, climbed the
steps to the third floor. He reached the landing. Through this door, he’d be in
the third floor hallway. One more door and he’d be dealing with Griswold.

He was alone in the stairwell.

Or so he had assumed.

“Peter.”

He froze. The voice startled him. It was
unfamiliar, but at the same time non-threatening, friendly. His eyes darted
around the cramped space, searching. There, to his right, on the landing. How
could he have missed it? A small dog.

Not a dog.

It had hands where its front paws should have
been.

“What?” Peter was understandably confused.

“Peter,” said the dog. “My name is Jeb.”

“This isn’t happening,” Peter said, feeling
panicked.

“I haven’t much time and neither do you. I need
you to listen to me. Something very bad is going to happen.”

“Ridiculous,” Peter said as he opened the door
and walked away from the talking dog. Get yourself together, man. Breathe.
Breathe.

Griswold’s room was just around the corner and
down the hall a short distance.

There was no way Griswold would go easily,
voluntarily. Peter was preparing himself, mentally, emotionally for this
confrontation. He’d had to pull Griswold off of other guards in the past, but
he always had back-up for when things got out of control. Why did I come
alone?This was a stupid idea, he scolded himself. No turning
back now. Keep it together, Peter, just a little longer.

He pulled his sidearm, broke open the cylinder
and confirmed it was loaded, then slid it back into the holster. He left the
retaining strap, dangling, unsecured, in case he had to pull the weapon with
speed.

Peter paused before the corner and took a deep
breath to still his nerves. He was committed. He was ready. He turned the
corner.

Peter’s heart sank.

Midway down the hall was Griswold.

Standing over Griswold’s massacred body was the
corpse, the thing the prisoner had dragged to the watchtower. On a length of
leather, dangling from its neck, was a piece of chalk.

Oh no, I’m still hallucinating, Peter thought.

“Hey!” Peter shouted, indulging his hope, his
fear, that what he was seeing was real.

The corpse turned to see Peter and leapt at him
with an animal’s furocity. Before he could react, the thing had knocked him to
the ground and was on top of him.

Not a hallucination, Peter thought. This hurts.

Peter’s world became small and chaos. The
creature had him pinned the way a cat pinned a mouse. The thing was absurdly
strong for how rail thin it was. To look at it one would assume it frail,
brittle, weak. Looks could be deceiving.

Peter pressed his forearm against its throat,
just barely keeping its snapping jaws from his exposed face. Thick globs of
spit and foul, putrid breath threatened to overwhelm him. He struggled through
the maelstrom to slip his revolver from its holster at his hip.

6.

“It’s too late,” the man in cell number six
said. “There’s nothing you can do now.”

This is still a test. You still have time. It’s
not too late. But you do need to hurry. Steph
let loose a frustrated scream and fired her weapon. The shot buried itself in
the stone just beside the man’s head. A warning shot. Control.

He was shocked, frozen with fear. He didn’t want
to die locked in a cell when he was so very near to the end. He had prepared.
He was prepared. He just needed to survive this stupid, simple girl.

“It’s the eye,” he said, quietly. “Once you see
it, you’re marked.”

“Marked?” Steph lowered the weapon.

“It leaves a stain behind that the shadow sees.”

“Shadow?”

“You people saw a corpse, because I needed you
to see a corpse. But, it’s not a corpse.”

THE ROOM

In the room at the top of the east tower, the
man from cell number six looked out through the window onto the narrow land
bridge that was barely visible under the soft glow of the moon. He saw
something. He looked back across the room to see Peter and Steph talking to one
another; he couldn’t tell what about. They didn’t see what he saw. He returned
his gaze to the window, through the window. From the wilderness, someone was
approaching.

“He’s here,” the man said, quietly, in
wonderment. A smile was spreading across his face. It was finally happening.
Soon enough, he would be rewarded for his efforts.

“What is he saying?” Peter snapped.

“I didn’t hear,” Steph said, nervously. She
reached into her pocket to feel the little book, to make sure it was still
there. It was confidence, patience, affirmation. She would make it through
this. She had faith.

“How do we stop this thing?” Peter yelled at the
man. “Hey! HEY! You! Are you listening to me? How do we stop this thing?”

The man ignored him. The someone disappeared
into an archway, below, into the tower. “He’s here. He’s finally here,” he
muttered.

Wrath. Peter flung his empty sidearm at the man,
as hard as he could, bouncing the heavy metal thing off his head. The weapon
hit the floor, loudly, clanging, and slid across the room. Like a marionette
whose strings had been cut, the man collapsed onto the hard stone floor.

“Peter!” Shouted Steph.

“Not like I need it. I emptied six shots into
that thing and nothing,” Peter said, broken. He walked over, picked up the
weapon and jammed it back into its holster.

The man from cell number six staggered back to
his feet. Blood leaked from his head and dripped from his beard. “He’s… here.”

“Footsteps,” Steph said. “I hear footsteps.”

The three grew silent, listening, waiting.
Someone, or something, was ascending the stone steps to the room at the top of
the tower.

There was an assertive knock at the door.

Steph positioned herself behind Peter. Both
pulled their knives. The man from cell number six smiled, excitedly.

Another knock.

“I’ve waited so long for this,” the man said,
easing slowly to his knees.

The knocking turned to violent pounding. The
wooden door flexed in protest. They could hear it popping and cracking and
failing. The old metal lock struggled to keep its hold.

“It’s going to get in,” Peter said, preparing
himself to die.

“I know,” Steph said, in a neutral tone.

The lock gave out and the door burst open, spraying
the room with splintering wood. A chunk of the metal lock flew across the room,
bouncing, clattering.

Then there was silence.

There, in the doorway, stood not a
corpse-monster, but a person, dressed thickly with animal furs.

“Who is that?” Peter blurted, becoming absolute
panic.

The man from cell number six turned a gloating,
knowing glance toward Steph and Peter. “You should have prepared as I have. The
moment of reckoning is…”

He froze puzzled.

Steph reached out and pulled Peter close, his
back pressing against her.

Strange,
Peter thought. Her breath was calming on his neck. Her body was warm against
his. In this moment of confusion, he felt safe, loved.

She kissed him, just behind the ear, where he
liked it most and whispered, “Goodbye, Peter.”

Fluidly, as if rehearsed a thousand times, she
cut open his throat. Blood burst from the severed arteries, spraying across the
room. She released him. Peter’s lifeless, gurgling body dropped to the floor. A
mist of blood hung in the air.

The prisoner looked at Steph then to the body
then back to Steph. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“This is not our way,” said the person
standing in the doorway. He tossed the corpse creature, limp and inanimate,
onto the floor.

Steph moved toward the man from cell number six.
“I’ve been here, waiting, for so long. Alone. When you arrived, I wanted to
believe you. You told me you were prepared, but you weren’t. I tried so hard.”

“I was… I tried… I…,” he blurted. He tried
scrambling to his feet. He tried to back away from her. She was a reptile, a
coiled snake, spring-loaded, hiding in the dark, waiting to strike. He hadn’t
seen her hiding, waiting. He admired her stealth, her patience, her discipline…
her faith.

She’d seen him for what he was even before he’d
arrived.

He was frozen before her.

She slipped the knife slowly into his heart and
twisted it slowly before pulling it back out. He dropped to the floor, tears
running down his cheeks.

Steph knelt to wipe the knife clean on the man’s
shirt. The murderous weapon slipped, with a whisper, back into its sheath, at
her belt.

Delicately, she pulled at the little red piece
of string, still tied around her little finger. The knot came undone. She
examined it, dangling from her pinching fingertips. “I did for you what I could
do,” she said, before dropping it onto the man’s sticky, bloody body.

She stood and turned to the person in the
doorway. “Welcome. You’ve crossed the threshold. I am Stephanie, a Witness to
the Architect. I understand we have work to do.”

“Yes we do, Stephanie,” Coyote confirmed. “A lot
of work. I understand you have something very important. Do you have it? Do you
have it with you?”

Steph pulled the little book from her pocket.
She looked down at it, lovingly, tracing the symbol embossed on its old leather
cover. An eye, almond-shaped, with three lines radiating from the top and three
lines radiating from the bottom.

Who Blog What

Thom Glick floated up from the bottom of the sea. After scientists cleaned the barnacles and seaweed from his sponge-like body, and equipped him with a magic salt water chest cavity breathing implant, he was secretly allowed to join the population of land dwelling humans. Now living among us, Thom is slowly documenting life on the surface with his abstracted visual interpretations and nonsensical babble writing.

To maintain an appearance of normalness, Thom lives with his cute surface dweller girlfriend, Zuz, and their fuzzy teeth monster, Pilot.